


Eight Years Time

by originalgay1895



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, Jumping around on the timeline, Lestrade is an idiot, M/M, Miscommunication, Pre-Season/Series 01, Romance, because im pretentious like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:11:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalgay1895/pseuds/originalgay1895
Summary: "So yes, it was times like this he would be inclined to agree with Sherlock. He was an idiot."Or the one where Lestrade realizes he's missed something important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first Mystrade fanfiction! Actually, my first Sherlock fanfiction as well. Let me know what you think! I'd appreciate any tips. :)

Greg Lestrade would be the first to admit to not being the smartest of the lot. However, despite what Sherlock liked to claim, he was not a complete idiot. He was more than happy with his slightly above average intellect, he’d leave being a bloody genius to the Holmes brothers. 

 

But, there were, every once in a while, certain situations where he was more than ready to admit defeat and accept his life as a bumbling idiot. 

 

Like the one he was in now, for instance. 

 

**_February 2014_ **

 

“Uhhh… Y’what?” 

 

“Really, Gregory, I do so hate to repeat myself.” 

 

Mycroft was making that face that meant he wanted, so dearly, to roll his eyes, but wouldn’t, because, of course, he was above such an ill-mannered act. So, he did it for him. 

 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. 

 

“I will admit, this is not the reaction I had suspected.” 

 

“Right,” he drawled, “what did you expect me to say, exactly?”

 

“Well, seeing as we have been in a relationship for approximately eight, admittedly, rather inconsistent and tumultuous years, but eight years none the less, I was rather hoping for a more, enthused response.” Mycroft blinked. 

 

Mycroft was nothing if not direct, so the slight rambling, perhaps not noticeable to most, was very concerning. 

 

Wait. 

 

“I’m sorry? What?” Lestrade stared at the black box, looking so inconspicuous sitting on the table between them. 

 

Mycroft huffed. “Gregory, I haven't the faintest idea why you are so perplexed.” He looked up as if drawing strength from the ceiling. “I’m quite certain I’ve expressed how invaluable you are to me.”

 

Well, yeah, he knew he was valuable. Not many would take care of, or even put up with Sherlock while high, or even worse, coming off a high. “Well, yes, I know I’m, ‘invaluable’ to you.” His fingers twitched with the urge to form quotation marks. “I just don’t see how that connects to,” he waved his hand toward the table, “well, this.”

 

Mycroft expression had changed to one that sufficiently relayed his complete and utter suffering. He looked like he was questioning Greg’s sanity. Which just wasn’t on. If anyone’s sanity was being questioned, it was Mycroft bloody Holmes’. 

 

“Mycroft,” he said slowly, “you realize what you’re asking me, right?”

 

“Of course I know what I’m asking you.” Mycroft was practically growling now. Perfect. “I’m well aware of the societal traditions that have formed the concept of marriage.” 

“There are, of course, tax benefits to being married, along with spousal privilege, among many other interests of being married,” Mycroft drew in a long breath, “however, I will admit, the tax benefits are of no particular importance to me.” 

 

He closed his eyes for a second, looking pained, “I ask you to marry me for purely _sentimental_ reasons.” He hissed the word out like it was vile. 

 

“Okay, but,” Greg opened his mouth to say something, but he could only sit there gaping. “But, _why?_ ”

 

“You are invaluable to me,” Mycroft said drawled it out slowly, like Greg was a particularly dense child. 

 

“I understand that! For God’s sake, Mycroft!” He slammed his hand on the table, taking pleasure in the momentary expression of surprise on the man’s face. “This just isn’t, this isn’t how these things work though.” 

 

Now he was pouting, for Christ sakes, sometimes it was so easy to see the relation to Sherlock. 

 

“‘How these things work,’” Mycroft quoted, “pray tell, how do they work then?”

 

“Well, for one, you marry the person you’re in love with, no someone who is _helpful,_ or _invaluable_ to you.” 

 

“Yes, of course, which is why I’m asking you.” Mycroft was pinching the bridge of his nose now. “Why do you think I have been in a committed relationship with you for the better part of eight years now?” 

 

A committed relationship?

 

Eight years? 

 

He didn’t know what else to do but sit and stare. 

 

So yes, it was times like this he would be inclined to agree with Sherlock. He was an idiot. 

 


	2. September 2006

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets "Mycroft" and solves a murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this written for a while, but I didn't think it was good enough to post, but, then I remembered, "Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." - Cyril Connolly. So I thought, "screw it" and decided to post this after all. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Just a warning: I'm no Sherlock Holmes, I'm just a criminal justice major, basically what I'm trying to say is I have no idea what evidence Sherlock would require for his deductive reasoning, so the leaps in logic it might seem super improbable, whoops. Also, don't pay to close attention to the timeline, I'm trying my best, but I'm not perfect at keeping it all straight (haha ;) s t r a i g h t ).

**_September 2006_ **

 

The crime scene was swimming with people from forensics. He watched with a frown on his face as they bustled about, bagging this and that. 

 

“Careful, your face will get stuck like that.” 

 

His head whipped to the side, where PC Sally Donovan stood, her eyes twinkling with mirth. 

 

“Excuse me if I’m not particularly in a smiling mood.” He huffed, going back to surveying the crime scene with narrowed eyes. A junkie, from the looks of it, was standing on the other side of the police tape. Lestrade in all his years of policing had a good idea of what a suspicious character looked like, and this kid was one. And a kid he was - he couldn’t have been more than 19. 

 

“Well, maybe you will be after you hear my good news.”

 

He abandoned observing the junkie in favour of looking back at Donovan. “Well?” He asked, impatient. 

 

“It was the husband. Forensics’ have already got all the evidence they need.”

 

He had gone back to looking at the lithe man with dark hair, haunting grey-blue eyes, and sunken cheeks.The man made a face of annoyance as he stared at Donovan. 

 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him. 

 

“Well?” Donovan exclaimed, throwing her arms up in a sign of complete exasperation. 

 

The man was still staring, but this time at the forensics team. He was jittery, too much energy with nowhere for it to go. 

 

They certainly had a lot of people who liked to loiter around crime scenes, but he didn’t seem like the usual homeless person or a random junkie. There was something all-knowing in his eyes that Lestrade did not like one bit. 

 

“Give me a second.” He said, turning his head for a quick look at the irritated face of Sally Donovan, before moving toward his curious target. 

 

As he approached the man turned tail and ran. 

 

_Damn,_ he thought after he had splashed through a puddle on his quest to chase after the lean figure, _I liked these shoes._

 

_//_

 

“What’s your name?” He managed to choke out. His lungs burning. 

 

The grey eyes were, even more, striking this close up. 

 

“It wasn’t the husband.” The man underneath him said, unfairly composed, like he had not just been chased for 6 blocks.

 

“Right. Let me guess, it was you?” Lestrade asked the man, as he arched an eyebrow. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The man spit out. “Of course it wasn’t me.”

 

“Well then, how do you know it wasn’t the husband?” He was humouring him now. Although he wasn’t sure at first, it was quite obvious this kid was on drugs - probably heroin.

 

“Because I’m not an idiot,” the kid seethed. 

 

“Care to elaborate?” He really hoped Sally was on her way, he had hoped she’d seen him take off. He didn’t really care to sit on top of this man, _boy_ really, for much longer. He was quite boney. 

 

“No.”

 

“Come on, how am I supposed to believe you when you won’t tell me how you know.”

 

The boy underneath him wiggled about like he was physically weighing the pros and cons of telling Lestrade how he knew. Greg didn’t appreciate it. 

 

“He couldn’t have murdered her because at the time he was in a different part of town, house robbing.” The boy scoffed, “ _Obvious_ ”.

 

“Right.” He blinked, he could hear Donovan’s feet now, hitting the pavement, somewhere down the alleyway behind them. “I’m gonna have to take you in and get your statement.”

  
“No,” the kid started wiggling again, “no, no, no.” He kicked a leg out, “If my brother finds-“  
  
“Listen, kid,” Lestrade started, trying to manage the boys wiggling.  


“I’m not a kid!” The boy huffed, indignantly. 

 

“Yes. You are.” Lestrade stated calmly, “Anyway, I’m not gonna say anything about your little habit, okay? It’s gonna be between you and me. If you want some help, I can do that. If not, well, let me just get your statement first and we can work the rest out. Okay?”

 

“Fine.” He huffed, again.   
  
“Lestrade!” Sally yelled, coming up right behind him, panting. “You okay, gov?”

 

“Fine, I’m just gonna take this lad in for his statement. He says the husband couldn’t have done it.” 

  
“Well, he’s wrong,” she scowled, “forensics-“  
  
“The forensics team are _morons.”_ The boy interrupted. 

 

Now she was scowling at the boy, who had at some point wiggled out from underneath Lestrade and was now sitting next to him, glaring daggers at Sally. 

 

“Listen here, kid,” She started, Greg could have told her it probably wasn’t a good idea to call him that, from experience and all.   
  
“I’m not a kid!” The _kid_ screeched. 

 

Maybe he wasn’t a kid, thought Greg, maybe he was just a banshee in disguise. 

 

//

 

If he _was_ a banshee, thought Greg, he was certainly a smart one. 

 

“It’s obvious!” He screeched. “I can’t comprehend how someone could be so dumb.” His arms were folded across his chest and it looked like he was _pouting_.

 

“Right. Well, it’s not obvious to me and it’s not obvious to PC Donovan. If you could explain how you know…”

 

“I have!” The kid exclaimed eyes flaring. 

 

“Listen, kid,” _Oops._

 

_“I’M NOT A KID!”_ There go his eardrums. He didn’t know it was physically possible to reach that high of a pitch. He was surprised the one-way mirror hadn’t cracked. 

 

“Right, of course, sorry,” he placated, “maybe it would help if you give us your name?”

 

“Mycroft,” the kid seethed. 

 

“ _Mycroft?”_ Greg responded, incredulous, “Right. Do you have a last name, _Mycroft?_ ”

 

“Holmes.” 

 

Right. _Mycroft Holmes_. He scribbled on his note pad, mouthing it out, silently. 

 

“Well, while you’re actually answering my questions, is there anyone I can call for you?” Greg asked. 

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Greg repeated, his eyebrows furrowing, “listen, you can’t be more than nineteen, I’m sure your-“

 

“I’m twenty-three!” The boy, well man, he supposed, exclaimed. 

 

“Twenty-three?” Greg repeated again, incredulous.

 

“Yes.” Mycroft seethed, “are you actually incapable of forming your own thought? I do so hate repetition.”

 

“Sorry, you just don’t _look_ twenty-three,” Greg responded.

 

“You don’t act it either.” Donovan snipped.

 

Greg looked at her wide-eyed. _Seriously?_ He mouthed at her. 

 

“Okay, Mycroft, twenty-three years of age, no one for me to call,” Greg repeated the information out-loud, reading it from his notepad. He forced down a smile at the annoyed huff Mycroft let out. “Now, would you like to tell me how you know that Angelo was house robbing at the time of the murder?”

 

“Look in his boots, there are glass shards in there, expensive glass, a window, from a rich part of town. I’ve seen it before. A broken window then. Why break a window when he so obviously has lock picking tools in his coat pocket? They were new, he hasn’t used them before, it was taking to long, so he decided to go with the very classic break and enter. How do I know when he broke into the house? Well for one, I heard the police scanner from inside a panda while standing outside of the crime scene. House owner got home and called as soon as they noticed they’d been burglarised. Even more obvious, if you’d have simply looked, he obviously broke his watch when he was breaking the window - the watch hand is stuck at 9:34, only approximately twenty six minutes before the murder occurred. Do you really think twenty-six minutes is enough time to not only burglarise the house but also get back home and kill his wife?” Mycroft scoffed, “obvious”. He leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms. 

 

Greg had started out writing down notes on what Mycroft was saying but gave up half way to through to instead stare wide-eyed in astonishment at the man. “You got all this from one look?”

 

He scoffed again, “one look is all you need.”

 

Donovan was looking back and forth between the two men, “Greg, you really expect me to believe he wasn’t in-“

 

“Yes.” Greg said, standing, “I do expect you to believe that.” 

 

He walked to the investigation room door. “Now, I’m going to talk to Angelo and confirm what Mycroft here is saying. You may stay here and keep him company or you can come observe me.” He opened the door and paused, “no arguing.”  


He almost laughed as Donovan knocked the chair over in her haste to stand up and follow him out of the room. 

  
“We’ll be right back, Mycroft.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Leave a comment of your thoughts!


End file.
